


Thrice in a Blue Moon

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Series: Blue Moon Nights [3]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Ending, Double Penetration, F/M, Incest, M/M, Post-Series, Sibling Incest, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-26
Updated: 2011-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-20 18:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If, uncharacteristically, you ever chicken out and need to blame it on something, you will rely on the tux. And on the cigar, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thrice in a Blue Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [latentfunction (keysmash)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keysmash/gifts).



> This is the third and last story for the Blue Moon series (same warnings apply regarding the Michael/Lincoln aspect). After posting the first fic, I told Foxriverinmate that it would only be fair to get Sara into a tux – I took my time, but here it is. Also partially based on [a prompt posted for Fall Fandom Free-For-All 2009](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/422866.html?thread=26673362#t26673362) (I did take my time ;))

It’s because of the tux.

It makes you a weird and, if you believe the looks you got during the last hours, attractive creature: soft curves hidden under your stiff outfit and hair pulled back in a tight bun, gestures too graceful for a man, eyes and mouth deftly drawn in dark shadows and light lipstick. The smart black suit – complete with flat dress shoes, a black tie and a fine fake mustache glued to your upper lip – is like waving a red cape at a bull and asking for trouble.

Michael has a thing for cross-dressing; you know you’re a walking wet dream for him tonight. You also know you’re not entirely insensitive to this little kink of his. It doesn’t really matter which one of you crosses the line; you two enjoy it both ways. It’s just a different kind of fun depending on who’s doing the gender bending. No surprise here. What you hadn’t predicted, though, was Lincoln’s reaction to the tux.

Maybe you had _hoped_ for Lincoln’s reaction to the tux, to be fair. It’s never difficult to obtain such a response from him, so it was a safe bet. But, truly, you hadn’t imagined he would be that... into it.

If, uncharacteristically, you ever chicken out and need to blame it on something, you will rely on the tux.

And on the cigar, too.

You could pretend you don’t get why men obsess over women taking puffs on those things, but it wouldn’t be honest of you. You get it. Just the way you get that Michael and Lincoln couldn’t care less when you tell them that you reek of tobacco and that the cigar leaves an awful taste in your mouth. You reeking and tasting of tobacco is a hindrance, but a tiny one compared to visuals. They’re men; with men, visuals always win over, and apparently, you offer the hell of a visual. So you tuck the cigar between your lipstick-glossed lips, and very soon, you indulge in the fallout.

None of you is a party animal – although you’d bet your head Lincoln once was, and you certainly used to be – but once in a while, you enjoy those never-ending blowouts. It’s so late when you get in the cab that it’s actually become early: still dark out there but merely a few hours shy from dawn. The brothers not so innocently sit you between the two of them in the backseat of the car, and their hands are on your knees as soon as the driver has pulled away. The guy pretends not to see anything – crazy Americans and their crazy fun – and gets an eyeful through the rearview mirror. You don’t mind. You stopped caring about what people think of you, the three of you, a while ago. You tip your head back and bring your knees together, trapping their hands between your thighs.

They almost behave while you’re in the cab but, as soon as you get to the bungalow, gloves are off. Lincoln’s arms snake around you from behind, his mouth on your neck and his hands sliding up your ribcage, while Michael hastily unlocks the door and drags you both inside and towards the bedroom. At least, you think with amusement, you do make it to the bedroom.

Michael makes a point of leaving on the mustache, but the pins holding your hair in the bun are the first things to go, followed with your jacket. In a matter of minutes, you’re lying across the bed between them, gasping for air and disheveled, their hands roaming on you and digging into your hair. Michael kisses the remaining lipstick off your lips, lets Lincoln have your mouth and laughs when his brother complains that the fucking mustache is tickling him.

They keep disrobing you in a fuss of movements, pawing and pulling at your clothes, excitingly inefficient in their haste. They try so hard to show some polite restraint and fail so miserably that you would laugh if you weren’t writhing for more. Always more; and they’re eager to indulge you. They’ve entered into an unhealthy but so pleasant competition about who’s going to make you moan the loudest – the lewdest, too – and they’re ruthless, with you as well as with each other. The way you arch your back, your needy sighs and pants elicit smug smirks you’d be all too happy to wipe of their faces in any other circumstance. Tonight, you let them have their way and bask in their self-satisfaction. You benefit from it.

With a raised eyebrow, Michael tantalizingly waves above your face the black tie he just took from your collar. As appealing as the idea is, you shake your head nonetheless. Not tonight. No blindfold or tying up. You want to see what’s going to happen, and for what you have in mind, you’ll need your hands free.

Lincoln growls low in his throat when the black lace of your bra pokes out from between the starched tails of your dress shirt. He throws a _how-could-have-you-kept-this-from-me?_ look at Michael before returning his attention to you and messily licking your nipples through the flimsy material. Michael, who has seen you dress up, grins; his grin grows wider as Lincoln gets to your belt and opens it to pull your pants down.

Plain, masculine white briefs to contrast with your lightly tanned skin and barely-there bra. Lincoln barks a laugh and grumbles that this is ridiculously hot. His thick fingers wriggle their way through the small opening of the underwear to stroke and push just a bit in you. Teasing you, the rough pads making feel wonderful things on your already slick flesh. You bite your lips.

“Please tell me those aren’t Michael’s?” he asks you, his thumb rubbing the soft cotton of the briefs.

The quiver of arousal in his tone is unsettling and sexy. It reminds you how wrong and delightful it is messing with those boundaries, how the three of you enjoy playing with fire, knowingly and tacitly at the same time. Michael chortling in your neck at his brother’s remark only makes it worse – or better – and your stomach clenches hard.

“Go figure,” you say cryptically. Teasing can go both ways, after all. Retaliation is immediate, but even as his fingers thrust deeper and make you rock your hips, you don’t answer him. You won’t answer him.

He’s good and sneaky with his hands; you’ve had several occasions to experience it. Not bothering to unhook the bra, he deftly cups your breasts out of the saliva-moist lace with his free hand and offers them to Michael’s hungry mouth. Stubble rasping the tender flesh and wet tongue soothing the delicious fire and you’re throwing your head back. Through half-closed eyes, you can guess that they share a look and a smile above you. They’re all over you before you can say anything, Michael above your mid-section and Lincoln below it, their hands and mouths merrily trespassing that rhetorical divide, their fingers joining up between your thighs and inside of you.

The words they whisper against your skin, the heat they radiate, the attention they lavish upon you... You thrash on the bed and shamelessly spread your legs. If competition had its perks, cooperation is damn good too. You want to tell them that, want to be racy and witty, but any smart retort you try to utter morphs into whines as Lincoln works his tongue inside of you, and your whines are swallowed by Michael’s kisses. You’re screwed. In all the acceptations of the word. If they keep this up, they’re going to make you come right now; they’re going to...

They stop. All of a sudden, even though their hands are still holding you down, their ministrations come to a halt. Looks like they understand it was too much, too fast, too soon. The abrupt lack of... everything is agonizing and you hold onto Michael’s arm, your nails digging into his skin.

“So, Sara...” Lincoln’s voice is low and rough. His huge hands slip under you and palm your buttocks to slightly knead and pull them apart. You let him do whatever he wants; you’re past the point where your brother-in-law fondling your butt mortifies you. “Want to take it like a man, tonight?”

You need a few seconds and Lincoln edging his fingers a bit further to get what he’s implying. Michael kisses the fake mustache still attached to your upper lip and grins. You suspect they’re teasing again. Funny how you’ve been a few steps ahead of them even before you put on the tux and all your attire. A deviant smirk curves your mouth.

“Tonight,” you say slowly, seriously, pushing back into Linc’s hands, “tonight, I want it both ways.”

You release Michael’s arm, lean back in the sheets and wait for the full meaning of your answer to sink into the two of them.

They rarely disappoint you. And as a matter of fact, the expression on their faces, the synchronized grunt and the sudden fussing about are up to your expectations.

* * *

They’re practical and too eager to bother with pretenses and niceties, so they merely ask you “how?” In a tale-telling roll-over, you face Lincoln and rest your back against Michael’s chest. Next time, you promise with an impish grin, they’ll switch if they feel like it.

They close in on you, hovering and pressing but never oppressing, and things get blurry in a delicious way. Too many kisses and caresses, feelings and sensations to keep track of all of them; they merge into an uninterrupted warm fuzz of pleasure. Remaining clothes discarded, shirts, pants and boxers falling in a messy pile on the wooden floor. Blatant display of muscles and skin you enjoy the way it deserves. Michael’s mouth drawing wet patterns on your shoulders and breasts, and Lincoln’s sliding down to places that make you blush yet squirm for more. You lie open and offered for them to take anything they want, and to your delight, they want a lot. They don’t spare you, don’t shy away, and push you as far as they fancy. You writhe and beg beneath them, guide their hands and mouths where you need them, kiss and lick any expanse of flesh you can reach.

It surprises you how not dirty it feels. Surely, it should feel dirtier, owning them like that, being owned like that... You say this aloud, and Michael answers with something sappy about love never being dirty. You and Lincoln laugh, and Michael scowls; of course, it only serves to make you laugh harder. You keep chuckling until they frown and take turns kissing you, aiming to sober you up and dragging you back into the moment. They don’t give you the smallest respite, Michael leaving your mouth only to have Lincoln take over, again and again, back and forth. You breathe in them, through them. They must taste each other on your lips – boundaries are getting thinner and on the verge of being even skimpier. A shiver of arousal courses throughout your body, and you kiss them deeper.

“Now.” You utter the command, raw and urgent, between two kisses. They observe the slightest pause, an ultimate hesitation. Unless it’s an ultimate teasing. Your heart leaps in your chest. You’re about to drop a few expletives and more directives when they finally, finally move.

You’re boneless. They have to help you onto your knees. Grab, shove and push; you relish the idea that their fingers will leave marks and faint bruises. Even as a joke, they don’t tell you to be a man – they know better – but they do roughhouse you in a manner they never use with you. It turns you on even more and makes you feel like you’re part of their boys club, that fake and unusual lack of thoughtfulness. You remember how Linc and you pampered and so delicately handled Michael when the situation was reversed not so long ago; you wonder if Michael felt the same back then.

You sway back and forth a couple of times between them. They’re hard and hot on your skin, Lincoln straining against your stomach, Michael against your ass. You smile. You love having Michael like that. You love the slight taboo – as if you hadn’t broken bigger ones – you love how desperate and aroused it makes him; you love how he feels inside of you. You press yourself into him and snuggle up to him when he wraps his arms around you. Lincoln strokes your knee, almost a comforting pat. To be honest, although another time you certainly won’t mind them switching positions, tonight, you can use the relative security and familiarity of Michael being the one to take you that way.

“Sara...” Michael pants in your neck and shallowly, helplessly ruts against you. “Please...”

Lincoln reaches for him, his hand curling on the back of his brother’s head and stroking the short hair. “Don’t you love him when he begs?” he asks you. He leans in to kiss Michael’s cheek, crushing you between them. You don’t mind. It’s not as if it was unpleasant, being caught like that, not to mention Michael’s delicious little gasp in your neck.

Lincoln doesn’t beg; that’s for sure. In a swift succession of moves, he reclines on the bed and yanks you down with him, positions you above him and thrusts up into you. He barely allows you the time to adjust to him. He’s already opening you for Michael, spreading you open and grinning at your small gasp. Readily, you tilt your hips one way and then the other, eager to feel them, enjoying every inch of them pushing and sliding deep into you. It’s only after, when they’re both sheathed in you, that Lincoln freezes with a shocked but thrilled expression; Michael presses feverishly against your back and kisses your jaw; and you still between them, breath stuck in your throat, eyes rolling in your head, pain and pleasure blending.

They refrain from moving right away, straining with their self-imposed wait. They ask if you’re okay, run soothing hands on you and pepper you with soft kisses, but you hardly acknowledge any of that. It can’t compete. You’re full and stretched, feeling as though their respective girths don’t add but manifold. It’s the same with the heat they generate, the harsh breathing in your neck and on your face, the way they encase you between them, their muscles taut and slick with sweat, their fingers digging in your hips and shoulders... Almost too much, almost makes you want to swear and cry. The discomfort of having both of them in you is slight and secondary; it’s how overwhelming the sensation is that makes you clutch the headboard for a few nerve-wracking seconds. You gasp and pant, tears prickling the corner of your eyes.

Lincoln casts a concerned glance at his brother. In a few hasty and forlorn words, they offer to call everything off, stop now and just... You grip the first thing your hands can find – Michael’s thigh, Lincoln’s pecs, as it comes – and growl through gritted teeth, “You’d better not go anywhere.”

They breathe out, their sigh of relief hot and moist on your skin – they haven’t hurt you, they can carry on, you _want_ them to carry on, it’s all they need to know. Just to be sure they get it, just to play with them a bit more, you murmur demands, tell them what you want and how you want it. They smile and groan at the words falling from your lips; they call you bossy and saucy and naughty... You certainly are, tonight, and you enjoy it.

Trying to kneel more steadily and secure his stance, Michael shifts a bit behind you. It’s a tiny move, but sufficient to set things in motion. Instinctively, you rock back to get more, feel more, not caring for taking it slow.

“Fuck!” Lincoln’s expletive makes you buck harder. He opens his eyes wide as his erection rubs Michael’s, obviously surprised by the intensity of the sensation and the strength of his own reaction. You let go of the headboard to stroke his face and chest with affection. You don’t ask him if they’ve ever had a woman like this before. It’s not the time to tease anymore, and you’re not sure you would want to know the answer. Yes and no would be equally shattering.

Michael cups your cheek and presses lightly until you twist your neck so that he can look you in the eye. His silent question is obvious. You nod. For a few seconds, as he thrusts into you and pushes you down onto Lincoln’s shaft, he keeps staring at you, whispering soft nonsense in your ear. It only ceases when Lincoln clears his throat with a fake politeness and pinches your nipple in a way that definitely gets your attention. He’s here; it would be nice if you two could acknowledge him. As an excuse, your and Michael’s entwined fingers caress his thigh.

Once the three of you are started, there’s no way back, no slowing down. They groan in unison at your tiniest rolls of hips; they move, fondle and fuck you in perfect harmony. This time, you do let out a sharp cry. You revel in their heated response, in Michael’s stronger shoves, in the way Lincoln’s hands stroke and slide on you – and a bit on his brother too, where he can reach him. Michael shakes and drives into you with even more ardor. They tear their eyes off you only to look at each other. Staring, relishing your displays and expressions of pleasure as much as theirs, silently communicating and getting off on the thought that they pleasure you and, through you, one another.

You don't bring them closer. You got this from the very beginning. They’re pressed together, only separated by that too thin membrane inside of you. They’ve had skin to skin, flesh to flesh contact many times before, but never so intimately. Yet, even now, you don’t bring them closer. You’re here _because_ they’re close, their connivance both the reason and the consequence of you ending up locked between them: they can, want and need to share you and each other.

The first time you had fooled around with Lincoln, it was by mere lust and fantasy; it was for Michael’s enjoyment, too. At least, you had wanted to think so. Each subsequent kiss, touch and step ahead in shared intimacy has taught that you couldn’t not love him. In a different way than you love Michael, but with a physical desire and an emotional need that overcome appropriate boundaries. They’re too intricately bound to be entirely told apart.

“Come on, Sara... Come for us.” Lincoln’s soft command is cheesy and cliché, but damn if that gravelly voice doesn’t make you melt more than you’ve already had. It validates what you’ve been thinking, too, even more so when he nods towards his brother and adds, “He can barely hold himself together anymore. He won’t let go before you come. You know how he is...”

The inappropriate big-brotherly comment must get to Michael because he withdraws almost entirely and pushes back in you in one long motion, hard and deep. Aiming to tip Lincoln as much as you over the edge. It makes you gasp and clench hard around them; in reaction, Lincoln bucks. He grips your waist, closing his hands around it above Michael’s. It’s a messy chain reaction, one you couldn’t tell who actually started, and for a few frenzied minutes, you’re an entanglement of limbs, sloppy kisses, slapping wet sounds and unabashed moans.

You collapse in the rumpled sheets. Sated and still throbbing, head and body swimming. A sigh heaves your chest as you extract yourself from their embrace. There is a delicious ache between your legs, on your back, against your chest – everywhere they’ve been touching you; you already miss the sturdy feel of them in you. You try to regain your breath and have a hunch you won’t get it back for a while.

They’re moving near you. You cast a glance towards them to see Lincoln’s mouth licking up from Michael’s abs to his throat, stealing him a grunt and a shiver of pleasure. Satisfied to have your rapt attention, he makes a show of nuzzling Michael’s throat; he moves up his jaw only to stop above his face. He hovers here, his mouth half an inch from Michael’s. Suddenly he doesn’t know anymore what to do with himself or with his brother – not daring to go _there_ even though Michael’s whole body shakes with dread and anticipation. That’s Lincoln: acting without thinking or, if you want to put it more nicely, acting on instinct. Not that it’s necessarily a bad thing, and about instincts, you follow yours.

You spot your fake mustache stuck on Michael’s shoulder – you never felt when it had been removed but obviously, it came off – takes it off his skin and flicks it out of the bed. They don’t react. They keep staring at each other, unable to make up their minds. You can almost feel the air vibrating from the tiny gap separating their mouths.

“Do it,” you say, removing the choice from their hands. It’s your night, isn’t it? Tacit rules stipulate they have to comply with whatever you ask.

It’s Michael who cranes his neck and aims for his brother’s mouth. Linc reacts with a gasp and a curse, but he doesn’t try to back off. They’ve never done this before, you’re pretty sure of it, not with the tentative way their lips press together. It’s oddly hot and disturbing to watch at the same time, arousing you and making you queasy to be turned on. You barely register that your hands have balled into fists.

It’s Michael again who cups the back of Linc’s head, and it’s still him who rolls them over, manhandling Lincoln onto his back. Lincoln doesn’t appreciate it – or maybe he doesn’t like how much he appreciates it – and for a few instants, it looks like they’re fighting, muscles bunched and tight. You see Michael’s tongue darting out and forcing Lincoln’s lips open. It lasts barely a second before Lincoln vehemently pushes him away. He does have limits to how far he’ll go, and apparently, his baby brother French kissing him is downright crossing the line, not merely fudging it.

He glares at you; you shrug.

“You two were dying to try it,” you point out.

Neither of them contests. Lincoln may snort and call you kinky, Michael may kiss you deep and slow, neither of them contests.

* * *

You three entirely occupy the large bed of yours and Michael’s bedroom. Neither man is small, and _you_ certainly make no effort to lie modestly or unobtrusively. Your head his pillowed on Michael’s shoulder, your hand playing with the coarse dark hair on his lower stomach. Lincoln has plastered himself against your back – and your bottom – which may or may not be a statement of his intention to collect what you had offered earlier. Fair enough.

You’re not completely sure what they’re doing with their hands. All you know is that, despite their protestations against non-brotherly kissing and you pushing them too far, you can’t feel or spot two set of hands at the moment. It inflames your imagination a bit. You suspect they do it on purpose.

You don’t sleep. You watch the pinkish dawn raise though the window, the tux and its pretenses an abandoned wrinkled heap by the foot of the bed.

-Fin-


End file.
